


tell me something (something that can move me)

by kiyala



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Runaway Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac runs away from the castle with no intention of going back. He doesn't expect to end up in a strange bookshop and certainly doesn't expect to have his mind changed by the man who owns it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me something (something that can move me)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [AU prompt meme](http://kiyala.tumblr.com/post/96342034971) I'm doing on tumblr for #21. runaway royalty and confused commoner… except not so much with the confused commoner. _Unimpressed_ would be more accurate.

Courfeyrac is lost. 

Truth be told, he's been lost since he left the castle walls, but he's not about to turn back now. One unfamiliar street is no different to any other and he picks the one that will get him furthest from the castle, pulling his hat down to obscure his face a little better. He's getting curious glances anyway and with an uncomfortable twinge in his gut, he realises that the quality of everyone else's clothing is nowhere near his own. 

There's a stall selling hats nearby and he walks towards it, pulling his off his head.

"I don't suppose I could trade this for one of yours, could I?"

The man looks at him with wide eyes, and Courfeyrac's heart sinks.

"You're the—"

"I mean, if you don't want to trade, I could just leave it with you and buy another one? Don't really like the way it looks on me, you see. But this one here? This one looks great. Can I have this one?"

The owner of the stall gives Courfeyrac a despairing look as he picks up a simple, black hat. "But that's just a simple hat, and surely you would prefer something better."

"This one's great," Courfeyrac assures him, checking the price tag before putting it on, handing over twice the amount along with his own hat. "Thank you."

He walks in the opposite direction he wants to, just so he can backtrack through the sidestreets, in case the man thinks he's being helpful by telling the castle's guards where he went. He fits in better with his new hat and he's glad for the fact that he decided to leave his coat behind because his simple white shirt and black pants don't stand out at all. 

That is, of course, until the rain starts.

Courfeyrac is used to the sudden rainstorms, but he's used to them from the comfort of the castle. It's a whole different story out here and he curses under his breath—then curses again because nobody around him tells him off for it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants gleefully as he clutches his hat and runs to the nearest door, knocking on it before entering. Hopefully, whoever is inside won't mind giving him shelter for a while. If he's lucky, they won't recognise who he is.

It appears to be either a bookshop or a small library. The walls are lined with shelves, all filled to bursting. There are tables, all covered with books as well, some in precarious stacks, others lying open. There's a man sitting at one of the tables, in the middle of binding a book. He's looking at Courfeyrac with a light frown and slowly puts his thread down, standing up.

"It's raining outside," Courfeyrac says, a little pointlessly because it's already so hard that they can hear it. "I just needed shelter and this was the first door I could find and—"

"That's fine," the man says, waving his hand as if to dismiss Courfeyrac's explanation. "You're a bit far from the castle, aren't you?"

Courfeyrac sags against the door. Of course he would be recognised. And now he's stuck indoors with a man who will treat him differently, who—

—Who turns away with a shrug of his shoulders, indicating one of the empty chairs. "Rain's not going to stop for a while, you might as well sit down."

Courfeyrac stares, but the man doesn't look at him again. He clears his throat, following him further into the room, taking a seat at the same table where his host is working. 

After a long moment of silence, Courfeyrac clears his throat. "My name is—"

"His Royal Highness, Prince Courfeyrac," the man finishes for him. "First in line for the throne, Duke of the city just outside the royal capital. I know."

Courfeyrac frowns. "I was going to say Sebastien."

"Sebastien?"

"My name," Courfeyrac replies. "My actual name, behind all the titles and formality. I don't think anyone even knows my name, to tell you the truth. I'm sure my parents have forgotten it."

"What do they call you, then?"

Courfeyrac shrugs. "They don't."

"Oh." There's a long, awkward silence before the man speaks. "I'm Combeferre. Uh, Henri, if we're exchanging given names, but…"

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac repeats, nodding. "Lovely to meet you. Thank you for your hospitality."

Combeferre snorts quietly. "It's no castle."

"And that's exactly the point."

Combeferre pauses with a curious look and puts his tools down, turning his attention to Courfeyrac entirely.

"What are you doing so far from the castle?"

"Running from it," Courfeyrac replies, finding it difficult to hold Combeferre's gaze as he says it. "From the castle, from the people in it, from everything. I'm… assuming you're not a royalist?"

Combeferre laughs quietly. "You'd be right."

"Well, neither am I. And I don't want to be part of the system. I refuse."

"Do you really think you'll solve the problem by running from it?" Combeferre asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Courfeyrac sighs heavily. "No. I don't know what else to do. I just don't want to go back."

Combeferre sighs as well, but his expression is kind. "Come on. I'll make you some tea. You're probably cold."

"Do you need any help with that?"

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. "Do you know how to make tea?"

"I can learn. Is it difficult?"

"Not at all." Combeferre smiles at him this time and it's a beautiful smile. One that Courfeyrac would definitely like to see more often. "Come on, I'll teach you."

Courfeyrac follows Combeferre to the back of the shop—or miniature library, he's still not quite sure what the place is—and into a kitchen. Combeferre opens a door and pulls a tin out, opening it. Courfeyrac looks inside, giving the dried leaves a dubious look. 

"What on earth is that?"

Combeferre looks like he wants to laugh, but bites his lip. "Tea leaves. You've never seen them before?"

"Are you telling me that this is what tea comes from?" Courfeyrac asks, his eyes widening. 

This time, Combeferre laughs loudly. "Yes, leaves and hot water. And milk and sugar and whatever else you like."

"I know the second bit," Courfeyrac says. "I mean, when I was served tea, I was always given my cream and my sugar separately, along with the teapot. I had no idea how the tea itself was brewed though. I always thought it was much more complex."

"Sometimes, the simple things are the best," Combeferre tells him. "Bring that kettle over, will you? I'll tell you what to do and you can make the tea."

They return to the front with two mugs of tea and Courfeyrac can't keep the pleased grin off his face. Combeferre's entire demeanour around him has softened now and he smiles easier, no longer holds himself quite so rigidly. It's still raining outside with no sign of relenting and Combeferre hums in thought as he stands at one of the windows, looking out into the darkness.

"It always gets dark so quickly when it rains like this," Courfeyrac says, standing beside Combeferre. "But it's different here, than all the way up there in the castle."

"You're probably best staying here until the morning," Combeferre says. "Hopefully, the rain will have stopped by then. I'm not sending you out in the dark."

"Why not?"

Combeferre snorts quietly. "You really haven't left the castle very much, have you? It's not safe on these streets. Especially not in these conditions."

"I didn't know that," Courfeyrac mutters, frustrated with himself. "There's a lot I don't know, from the looks of it. Could you imagine me being in charge of this place? I wonder how much my father knows, and how much he doesn't."

"You could learn," Combeferre suggests.

Courfeyrac turns to him, studying his expression. "Will you teach me?"

There's a slight curve to Combeferre's lips and he nods. "Where do you want to start?"

They stay up all night talking, making more tea, until Combeferre switches them over to coffee because it's clear they're not going to sleep any time soon anyway. He learns more from Combeferre in one night than he ever has from his tutors, about how the kingdom really works, about their struggles, about what they're good at. Combeferre might not be particularly fond of the throne, but he's neutral as he teaches, laying out the facts without his personal opinion colouring them. 

Courfeyrac thinks that he could listen to Combeferre forever, awed by his quiet intelligence, by how clearly he cares about the people of the kingdom in his own way. When his eyelids feel too heavy to keep open and his head droops, he tries to fight it, not wanting to stop talking just yet, but Combeferre notices immediately, smiling ruefully. 

"I'm sorry, I can get a little carried away when I start."

"No, don't apologise," Courfeyrac replies, then needs to cover his mouth as he lets out a loud yawn. "It's fascinating. I want to learn more."

"Maybe tomorrow," Combeferre tells him, getting to his feet and guiding the way towards the stairs that lead up to the living quarters. "But for now, you're going to get some sleep. You can take my bed and I'll throw some blankets on the couch and sleep there."

"No, I'm not kicking you out of your own bed," Courfeyrac protests. "I'll take the couch."

"My bed is barely going to be comfortable, compared to what you must be used to," Combeferre points out. "I don't imagine you'll like the couch very much. This is more practical."

"You might be right," Courfeyrac replies, "but I'm not happy about it."

Combeferre chuckles, taking his spare blankets out of a closet. "Believe me, that's something I'm very used to hearing." 

"That doesn't surprise me at all," Courfeyrac mumbles as he gets into bed. 

He shuts his eyes and doesn't even remember his head touching the pillow. The next thing he knows, there's sunlight in the room and Combeferre's hand is on his shoulder, urgently shaking him awake. 

"What?" It takes him a moment to remember where he is and why he's there. "What's happening?"

"I was just out buying some food for breakfast," Combeferre tells him, frowning, "and there are signs up declaring that you're missing and that the royal guard is doing a thorough search throughout the kingdom until they find you."

Courfeyrac sits up in bed, his eyes going wide. "No! No, don't let them find me, Combeferre, I don't want to go back, please—"

"It's okay," Combeferre tells him, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're not going anywhere you don't want to, I promise you. We'll need to make you difficult to recognise when the guards come by. You'll need to hide in plain sight."

"How do I do that?" Courfeyrac asks shakily.

"Well, for starters, your hair is already doing most of our work for us."

"Oh no, is it curling?" Courfeyrac tugs at it despairingly. "I usually tame it with this scented oil at the castle—"

"Leave it like this." For a moment, it looks like Combeferre is going to reach out and touch it, and Courfeyrac is surprised by just how much he wants that. "You look different like this. I have some clothes here that belong to one of my friends, he's roughly the same size as you. Perhaps if you look more like the working class, the guards won't recognise you."

Courfeyrac bathes as Combeferre puts his disguise together. There's a worn pair of brown pants, a faded and creased shirt, and suspenders sitting on the bed for him. Combeferre walks into the room just as Courfeyrac's finished changing, holding up a pair of glasses.

"I found one of my old pairs, without the lenses. They might help, too."

Courfeyrac accepts them, putting them on and looking at himself in the small mirror on the wall. He can barely recognise himself and it's strange. He can feel the weight of Combeferre's gaze and turns slowly to meet it, his lips twitching into a smile.

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

Combeferre turns away, but not quickly enough for Courfeyrac to miss his embarrassed look. He mutters, "Everyone in the kingdom knows you're attractive." 

"But you find me attractive," Courfeyrac says, because it suddenly feels incredibly important that he does. "You, specifically."

"Yes," Combeferre replies, turning back to meet his gaze. Boldly, he adds, "Particularly like this."

Courfeyrac grins, incredibly satisfied with the answer. Combeferre clears his throat and turns away again.

"I'd better get to work. You can join me downstairs, if you'd like."

"I would like that a lot." Courfeyrac follows him, sitting at the table and watching him work, reading passages from the books near him. He doesn't even realise that he's managed to get ink on his fingers until Combeferre looks at him and makes an amused noise. 

"What?"

"You have ink on your face." Pointing at his own cheek, Combeferre chuckles. "You were resting your chin in your hand as you were reading, I can tell."

Courfeyrac rubs at his cheek and Combeferre shakes his head.

"No, you're only making it worse. You're smudging it. Here."

Combeferre reaches over, cupping Courfeyrac's cheek. It makes Courfeyrac freeze, his breath hitching. Combeferre goes very still and Courfeyrac wants to break the silence somehow, by clearing his throat, by leaning in to close the gap between their lips, anything, but that is the precise moment they hear a loud knock on the door.

"Oh no," Courfeyrac gasps, eyes darting around the room as he looks for somewhere to hide.

"You'll be fine," Combeferre tells him. "Stay right here. Act like you belong here. We'll be fine."

Courfeyrac nods shakily and Combeferre squeezes his shoulder before getting up and walking to the door. 

"We're looking for the prince," the guard at the door says, in place of a greeting. "We're questioning everyone in this area. I trust you won't mind if my fellow guard searches your building."

"Not at all," Combeferre replies, stepping aside. Courfeyrac's clothes are neatly hung up with the rest of Combeferre's friend's clothes, so they don't look out of place. They won't find anything out of the ordinary upstairs.

Courfeyrac sits where he is, watching the guard walk past him and to the stairs. Combeferre returns to his side, sitting down and placing his hand over Courfeyrac's on the table, squeezing gently.

"Who lives here?"

"Just the two of us," Combeferre replies. "I run the bookstore and repair and rebind old books. This is Seb, my partner." 

Courfeyrac smiles at the guard before turning to Combeferre, who is watching him with a look of utter devotion. It takes Courfeyrac a moment to realise that he's acting and it still takes his breath away. He's never had anyone look at him like that before and as he sits there, he realises there's very little he wouldn't give to have Combeferre look at him like that and actually mean it. 

"Husband?" the guard asks, glancing at their hands.

"Not yet," Courfeyrac murmurs, not quite meeting the guard's eyes, wearing a shy smile to sell it. 

Combeferre makes a fond noise, bringing their joined hands to his lips. His lips are soft against Courfeyrac's fingers, warm as they linger against his skin. 

The second guard comes back downstairs, shaking his head to indicate that he's found nothing. The guard questioning them turns away, walking to the door. "We'll be on our way. Thank you for your cooperation."

Combeferre sees them out and shuts the door behind them. Courfeyrac stares at him in amazement.

"Are you okay?"

Courfeyrac laughs, nodding. "That was a lot easier than I thought it would be."

"I'm sorry for pretending we were together," Combeferre says, frowning as he returns to his chair. "It was a snap decision. I realised that if I was affectionate with you, it would make the guards want to leave faster."

"You're incredibly clever," Courfeyrac murmurs with awe. "And I didn't mind at all."

Combeferre averts his gaze with a shy smile. "That… probably shouldn't please me as much as it does."

"And I probably shouldn't be as captivated as I am by the fact that you're an incredibly good liar," Courfeyrac returns. "Yet, here we are."

Nodding, Combeferre smiles at him. "Here we are."

"After our conversation last night, I've decided I am returning to the castle," Courfeyrac says. "I know the kind of changes I want to make, and I can use my position in the royal court to actually work on those changes. But I'd like to stay here a little longer, if that's alright. Perhaps learn a little more from you."

He reaches across the table, stroking his fingers along the back of Combeferre's hands. Turning his hand over to slide their palms together, Combeferre laughs softly. "I… can't teach you things I don't know." 

"Then we could learn together," Courfeyrac suggests, interlocking their fingers. "If you would like."

"Yes," Combeferre agrees, smiling as he leans into Courfeyrac. "…Yes, I think I would."

Their lips brush against each other in a tentative kiss before Courfeyrac kisses him again, firmly this time. The first change Courfeyrac is going to make is to figure out how to make sure he can still see Combeferre regularly after he returns to the castle. If he isn't allowed to leave castle, he supposes he can always sneak out again, but he's already fantasising about bringing Combeferre there with him, already imagining his face when he sees the royal library.

Right now, however, Courfeyrac is more than content to stay right here.

**Author's Note:**

> …This is my 300th fic on AO3 and 115th Les Mis fic? Wow.
> 
> Title from Made For You by OneRepublic


End file.
